Deleriath is Dead
by Notomys
Summary: A dragonless HAD attempts to find meaning in his life after the death of his green. OneShot


**Disclaimer:** Dragonriders of Pern and all related concepts belong to Anne McCaffrey.

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Walking into the Weyrbowl made my heart feel strange, epically empty. The moment my feet touched the loose gravel, my entire world focused in on the slight crunch of moving rocks. I was deaf to the noises of the people and the machinery. I was a singular entity. The busy buzz of activity was too far apart from me to pay any attention to, the only thing I could focus on was my footsteps. I knew that if I focused on anything other than that the noise would drive me mad.

I was forever surrounded by their voices, but none of them really mattered anymore. They told me that I was lucky. Most people in my situation would be consumed by a perpetual silence. At least I could still hear them. It didn't make a difference. Even if all of the dragons on Pern would crowd themselves into my mind, they would be overshadowed by the silence left by Deleriath.

I don't really know why I still want to live, and everyday I swear I'm doing something wrong just by breathing. The fact that my heart still beats seems utterly sacrilegious.

My girl is dead. She left me four turns ago with a scream of pain and hurt. Even I, the boy who could hear all of the dragons, couldn't make out her garbled last words. I try to live by each day. It makes it easier not to think about things.

The sun was just starting to rise. Their voices were becoming more and more insistent. They had been born and bred for mornings like this one. I tried to push away the snippets of conversation I happened to overhear, but bits fell through. Somewhere a rider I used to know called out a greeting. I turned away. It was a beautiful bloody morning.

I had always fought in the Queens' Wing. They told me that I was too valuable to the Weyr be put in an actual fighting wing. They didn't want to risk me. It shouldn't have happened. They should have put me with the groundcrew, Deleriath would've been safe from freak accidents. That's what they called it. A freak accident.

I tried to stop my mind as I slowly traversed to the congregation of great golden hides. The groundcrew always set up near the queen's wing. The best way to find it was to look for the queen's. It was impossible to miss their voices. They were proud. They were not afraid. Their dragons were about to die for them. Everything would be okay. I couldn't stop it. I couldn't really remember what happened that day. I don't remember the freak accident. I just remember darkness. Drugs and darkness, I slept for so long I thought I was dead. Screaming and pain, then darkness and silence.

Somewhere from atop a mound of shimmering beauteousness I heard a familiar voice._ It's going to be a tough day. The winds are high. We'll be busy._

I say something extremely profane in response. The sharding queen should know better than to talk to me like that. I don't want to hear them anymore. Her rider is angry with me. She tells me to mind my own business. I shouldn't intrude between a rider and her dragon. I tell her to go /between/ and stay there, and then I walk away.

I hear the golden girls gossiping as I leave. They forget sometimes that I can hear them. _Such a strange man._

_Mine tells me he's lost his green._

_Pity really. Still, he needn't be so rude._

It takes all of my strength to hold my tongue. I want to scream at them, but I know that it isn't their fault Deleriath is dead. It is no one's fault. The weyrling had just suffered his first scoring. He was scared and in pain. I try to tell myself that he wasn't trying to hurt anyone. He just happened to emerge from /between/ at an inconvenient time and place. He needed to unload the ashy gases inside his stomach. Deleriath and I just happened to be in front of him. It wasn't his fault. It wasn't my fault. I swear if I ever see him again I'll rip his bloody bronze to shreds. I see myself everyday. Perhaps it would be more convenient to rip myself apart.

I was in the groundcrew now. My role was no longer purely symbolic. I had a purpose. I don't know how many men I've saved from being bathed in silver silence. A lot I suppose. I worked with the healers on the field. I could hear all of the dragons. When their riders were half-dead from threadscore, and they were panicked and hurt, I could collect information that could save their lives. All too often a rider is too traumatized by his dragon's injuries to give an accurate report. I was responsible to gather this information.

I usually did a good job.

Sometimes though, days like today. I liked to make mistakes.

They Weyr didn't think that it was enough to keep me alive. They thought that I deserved to be reminded of Deleriath's demise everyday. Sometimes I liked to exert my revenge on other people. Other riders deserved to be like me. Alone. Silent, with nothing but dead things in their head. One of the journeyman healers said something in greeting. He didn't have a dragon. I had no reason to hate him; I pushed out, "Hello."

He pushed forth, "They are preparing to leave soon."

"Numbweed ready?"

He nodded. Our conversation was one of the longest I had held for some time, but was cut short by the sudden flight of the fighting wings. I had seen their ascent from atop dragonback. The Weyrleader on his bronze pumping his arm in the air: the feeling of muscle and hide gathering to leap into the air. The beginning of the worst day of a life. I lowered my head and smiled.

By the end of the day at least a wing's worth of dragons would fall from the sky to join us in the Weyrbowl. They would be burned through with black and gold. Most of them would be screaming with their riders. They would fall like burning stars down to us, and some would die. Some would die and leave someone alone. The riders always scream then. Then they lie still.

Sometimes I swear that they are screaming for me. I know that they are not. They are screaming for the silence in their heads. I'll let them scream, and let them sleep then I'll tell them that it won't be okay. No matter what they say. I tell them that they lie. The choice to live or die must be made freely with any regrets.

Threadfall has started, but everything is in place. Everything will run smoothly. The sharding eggsacks will fly frequently enough to replace the dragons that are lost. Most of the rider's are lost with them. Faranth knows that people breed enough to replace them.

I still with the healers in the groundcrew, and wish that I could find a way to leave this deadspace. The first few minutes are always completely quiet. Inhaling deeply I open my mind, and slowly the world around me turns back on. It's always like this.

It starts when I hear the rough popping noise of a hasty trip /between/ like the rest of the crew; I cast my eyes to the sky. It's early in the fall, but she's burnt well through. The only way I know that she is a green is her voice, a girl's voice telling us how much she hurts. She lands, roughly, her rider is barely alive.

She's panicked. Her wingsail is a bloody mess. They don't need me to tell them that. She's screaming in my brain for help as she looks around. With a choking sound she leaps to the air again.

I know it's too late before she vanishes.

The stars will go out.

I will disintegrate.


End file.
